


Stop Fuckin' Bothering Me, Numbnuts

by Gaylagher



Series: One Shots [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 15:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11150922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaylagher/pseuds/Gaylagher
Summary: "Here's a one-shot if you're interested: famous!Mickey (for anything) and reporter!Ian who won't stop bothering him?"





	Stop Fuckin' Bothering Me, Numbnuts

**~~~~**

"Mickey, wake up," his agent said, shaking him awake.

Mickey woke up in his comfy feather bed, stretching slowly and groaning. He had gotten up to do his morning routine—brush your teeth, a time consuming skin-care routine, breakfast, and checking fan mail—and checked his fan mail, still groggy and grumpy from being separated from his  _insanely_ comfortable bed. His thoughts wandered back to the bed as his agent droned on about what he has to do for the day.  


"You have to do an interview," Stephan, his agent said, "so get ready."

"Can a man not eat his breakfast in peace?" Mickey questioned, as he took another bite of his fluffy eggs. Stephan had ignored his question for a long time, before he knew the raven-haired man waited impatiently for an answer, sapphire eyes trained on his face.

"A man with a busy schedule can't," Stephan replied with a sigh, "a man needs to hurry up before he's late. Again."

"Okay, Jaqen H'ghar," Mickey grumbled, rolling his sapphire eyes. And he had gotten ready with a half-full stomach and tiredness still lingering inside him.

As he got out of his house, a crowd of reporters had gotten up, but one had caught his eye—a tall, redhead with a couple of freckles on his face had pushed past the other reporters, and his questions were the loudest of them all, "what's with the knuckle tattoos?" 

Mickey shoved his hands in his pockets, not wanting to bring attention to his knuckle tattoos. It was a stupid idea he had when he was a rebellious hoodrat, made to make him look more intimidating—since his height wasn't doing the job for him—and it had worked then. But now.. now he had no reason to threaten people, or intimidate them. He had the complete opposite life that he had when he was a child.

Maybe that's why he was so successful. Everyone loved his backstory—fucking ate it up like it was the best meal they ever had. A poor boy that had to fend for himself more often than not, in a household that held more horrors than comfort, a mom dead and a dad frequently in jail, and had to be rough externally so people wouldn't fuck with him, to a successful, rich, young man who had fulfilled all his dreams.

Mickey had thought that this was an amazing life—not having to worry about rent, or anyone attacking him (because he had, like, three bodyguards around him wherever he went) and people licking his boot and wanting to know about him, dig up skeletons in his closet, get close and personal with him—but it was more stressful than he thought it'd be. Everyone wanted "a word" with him. It was draining, pretending to be "down-to-earth" and actually taking interest into their repetitive questions—"why did you want to be successful?", "what was it like living in the hood, homie?" they would say, trying to act "ghetto" as a joke while Mickey fought the urge to roll his eyes and politely laughed—and putting up a front that he was fucking  _happy._

It was tiring, but at least Mickey didn't have to live in fear all the time.

  


***************   


**  
**

"It was a pleasure having you here," the interviewer said, and Mickey knew that she was wrapping it up.  _Thank fuck._

"It was a pleasure being here," Mickey said, as the corners of his mouth voluntarily pulled up, and gave the interviewer a charming smile. He stopped smiling when the cameras stopped rolling and the extra light that had shined on both the interviewer and Mickey turned off. He had gotten up and was escorted outside—pausing not-so-briefly to give autographs and take pictures with his fans, all of them fawning over him, obsessing over his smile and complimenting on his eyes.

As his fans had dissipated after getting what they wanted, Mickey had seen the same redhead leaning against his car, and sighed. "Jesus." The man had been bugging him for days now, and Mickey was too tired to keep up his "down-to-earth" personality.

"Hello to you too, Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich," the redhead said, and followed Mickey into his car—even though the raven-haired man didn't invite him in—"that's your name, right? What's your heritage?"

"My heritage?" Mickey asked, feigning interest. "Hm, I do recall my dad saying that we come from 'leave me the fuck alone, Firecrotch'."

"Interesting," the redhead said, a smirk playing on his lips. "Since we're on a first name  _and_ heritage basis, it's only fair if I tell you my name. Ian. Ian Gallagher."

"I don't remember asking what your name was, 'Ian, Ian Gallagher'," Mickey grumbled and rolled a window down as he stuck a cigarette between his lips.

Ian guffawed, which took Mickey by surprise. "I didn't know you were this funny!"

"I am full of surprises," Mickey said around his cigarette, and lit it.

"So, Mickey," Ian said, "are you seein' someone?"

"No."

"Really? An attractive man like you isn't taken?"

"'Parently not," Mickey mumbled. The man had gotten an unreadable expression on his face before continuing.

"What's your type in girls?" Ian asked.

"Who said I liked girls?" Mickey blurted out, and immediately regretted letting those words tumble out of his mouth.

"So.. you don't," Ian replied, "noted."

"No, don't note that," Mickey said. "I mean it. I'm not ready to come out yet, asshole."

"But my job—"

"Your job is to fucking tell everyone about my fucking life, I know," Mickey interrupted, anger bubbling inside him. He was done of having everything out in the open, done with the lack of privacy, done with reporters and interviewers wanting to get a peak inside his life. He was  _done._ "But if I find out that you have outed me, I will hunt you down and put a bullet through your fucking head. I know people; they'll make your death look like you killed your sorry self."

Ian didn't seem phased by Mickey's death threat. Instead, he smirked. "You can take the man out of the South Side, but you'll never take South Side out of the man."

"Shut the fuck up with that gay shit."

Ian only chuckled and shook his head. "Grew up in Southside as well."

"Really? Where?"

"North Wallace," Ian informed Mickey and Mickey nodded, "so your threat doesn't mean shit to me." Both men stayed quiet, Mickey savouring the silence. "So.. we'll go with 'girls with a nice personality, beautiful eyes, and a beautiful smile'?"

Mickey laughed—genuinely, which surprised him—and shook his head. "Sure, whatever." Mickey didn't know whether the threat actually did scare Ian, or if he decided not to be a fucking asshole and out someone who wasn't comfortable with being out yet. Either way, Mickey appreciated him for it, however.  __

"Noted."

  


***************   


**  
**

Mickey had come to realize that Ian wasn't as annoying as he thought Ian would be—quite the contrary, actually. He didn't know how much he missed someone who would actually talk to him like a normal human being, rather than someone asking him questions about his life that he had already answered before.

"So then, the asshole shot my thigh," Mickey said, as Ian laughed, both men in Mickey's room—because Mickey didn't want Ian to leave, not yet—"still probably have the scar."

"He shot you over a Snickers bar?"

"Yup."

"Fuck." Both men stayed silent, which was occasionally interrupted by Mickey sniffing or Ian clearing his throat. "You know why I didn't choose to be an asshole and out you?"

"Cause you were secretly scared of the threat?" Mickey asked, raising an eyebrow. Ian flipped him off and chuckled.

"Nah, man," Ian denied. "I was outed before I was ready to come out."

"Come again?" Mickey asked.

"I'm gay," Ian clarified. "My whole family knew because the guy who I was screwing at the time—who happened to be my sister's boyfriend's dad, just my fucking luck—was shitfaced and went over to where Lip was sleeping and pressed a full chub against his ass."

"He thought Lip was you?" Mickey asked.

"Yeah. And then I had to fess up, which fucking  _ruined_ my sister's boyfriend, and soon enough everyone knew in my family that I was gay, when before only two people knew."

"Shit," Mickey breathed. He looked at Ian, and he noticed how fucking hot the redhead was. The man had pink lips—which looked soft—and beautiful emerald eyes that would seem as if they were multiple colours mixed together, and his skin was spotted with tiny freckles, that Mickey  wanted to play connect-the-dots on. His hair was fiery and wild, but slicked  back, and his hands were fucking huge, with long fingers. Mickey bit his lip, wondering how they'd feel inside him. He reluctantly raised his probably-hooded eyes back into those emerald ones, and the redhead grabbed the back of his head and leaned in. Mickey flinched back, reflexively. "The fuck?"

"I was trying to kiss you, asshole," Ian said.

"Why?"  _Fucking dumbass._

"Cause I want to? Jesus, Mickey." And he tried again, leaning in and slotted their lips together, hand caressing Mickey's neck. Mickey reciprocated, and he could feel electricity crackle inside him. He's kissed people before, and _no one_ made him feel like this. No one made him feel as if he was floating, made his heart swell and beat rapidly against his ribcage, made him grab onto them and never let them go like Ian did.

Much to Mickey's disappointment, the taller man pulled away, his emerald eyes hooded. Mickey wanted—no,  _needed—_ more from this man, and latched his lips on the redhead's neck, as they both hastily pulled each other clothes off.

"Lube," Ian said, and Mickey got his lube out, as Ian fumbled with opening the packet and coating his fingers with it, as Mickey turned his back to Ian before going on his hands and knees on the bed. Ian slipped a digit inside Mickey, and Mickey hissed in pleasure, dropping his head between his shoulders, and bit his lip as the man behind him made quick work of scissoring him, as he leaned over to kiss the back of Mickey's neck.

"Fuck me already, bitch," Mickey grumbled, earning him a laugh from the redhead

"Eager, are we?"

"Shut the fuck— __" Mickey gasped as Ian thrust into him, letting a moan escape. He was _huge._ He bit his lip, hard, making sure he wouldn't be embarrassingly loud, and grunts filled the room, as well the slapping sound of Ian's balls hitting Mickey's ass as Ian drilled into him. Ian's fingers dug into Mickey's hips, as Mickey gripped the pillows. Ian let go of Mickey's left hip, and started jerking Mickey off with his left hand.

"I'm gonna—" Ian didn't finish his sentence as he came inside Mickey, and Mickey came onto the white sheets soon after that, both men trying to catch their breaths as Ian pulled out of him. 

Weeks turned into days, and Mickey and Ian would meet up secretly as Ian fucked Mickey into oblivion. Mickey had two favourite things as time progressed—his fluffy, comfortable bed, and Ian.

**Author's Note:**

> tbh i didn't know a work title so i typed something that mickey would probably say to ian in this AU one shot.
> 
> enjoy, and please leave one-shot suggestions for me to do! thank you!
> 
> until next time,
> 
> \- Gaylagher


End file.
